To Offer a Smile
by Cecelia S. Bradley
Summary: Who would ever think it would be so hard? But who would think one would become so, so very strong?


The old jail was so small that he could see the farthest wall when he walked in. He walked slowly over to the desk at the side, a slight limp dogging his steps and hindering his progress. The warden at the front by the door wore a tight bun, and her voice was just as forbidding as the way she carried herself. "Who do you want here?"

He puzzled over how strangely the question was worded before deigning to respond. "Prisoner number, ah…" He quickly looked down at the number he had written on the back of his calling card. "Number 2317, madam."

She snorted deridingly at his formality, and then checked her list. Her eyes immediately betrayed puzzled annoyance, and she asked with a scowl, "Him?"

He nodded. "Yes. Please give him my card and see if he is willing to speak to me."

The warden took the card from her visitor roughly and walked, almost marched to the back wall, then turned a corner that he hadn't noticed before. He heard a grate being slid open, and he imagined his card was being dropped inside. He knew the prisoner would recognize it right away.

"Well, look at this, prisoner! You have a caller. Do you want to _entertain_ calls today?"

A scraping of metal on the cobbled floor, and then a barely suppressed guffaw. He still heard it, though, even from the door of the jail. "You must be playing with me, Jong. Why would he come here?"

"I honestly don't know. He seems wacked."

He winced. He imagined the warden didn't know he could hear her words, but he still cast around in his briefcase for the small pocket mirror he kept in the outside pocket and flipped it open. Wrinkles were prominent on his face, and he could tell that he looked tired, but he didn't _look_ insane.

He was pretty sure he was, though.

Why else would he be visiting this jail, when he had vowed never to even look upon it? Why else would he still be here, patiently waiting for the warden to come back, when he would rather never see his "guest" in a million years? Why else would he almost feel _glad_ that he was in this cursed place?

He didn't know.

Perhaps, though, it was from _then_. From that time when all the Cahills came together at Amy and Dan's house in Boston to be updated on Vesper progress. From that time when he had lost the way in Grace's mansion and stumbled upon Sinead Starling standing up with tears in her eyes and facing Hamilton Holt, who looked so guilty, so ashamed, so small.

From when he had watched Sinead, who looked stronger than a mountain, extend her hand slowly, deliberately, to offer him a hand in friendship, to offer him a smile and say, "I forgive you."

And so he was now mad.

A shouting ripped through the morning air, and he was jolted back to the present. "But he's the reason why I'm in this cursed, putrid place! If he thinks I'll _see_ him, he is obviously a delusional fool."

So even his uncle thought so.

The noises from the back of the jail receded, and he didn't hear anything for a minute or so until footsteps came back to him, clicking against the cobblestones. "He'll see you. But you only have fifteen minutes. Come back this way."

The warden led the way around the corner, and a tiny lone cell was revealed at the very back of the corridor. He looked inside and saw his uncle, one foot cuffed to the wall, hands chained together by about forty centimeters, hair matted and filthy, eyes jeering, mouth scowling. "What do you want here?"

The warden left. "Good morning," he replied slowly, and he couldn't help the bitter taste that surged into his mouth. _This is what you've been fighting for! He's in prison _forever_. Why show him mercy? Just leave, now_.

But he couldn't force himself away.

"So. What do you want here? Did you come just to mock me here? Alright. Mock me. But know I'm stronger than you.

"No, Uncle," he said. "I just came to visit. How are you?"

"Wonderfully, thank you for asking," the old man muttered sarcastically. "Now tell me, why did you really come? The only reason I allowed you to visit is because I'm intrigued by your presence. Tell me. I demand it."

"Uncle, I—" He couldn't say it. He wouldn't. There was no way on earth that a few teenagers buddying up would make him do this.

But what that boy had put himself through trying to be at peace with himself, what that girl had had to drop and forget to accept him, it was so much. And they, they were—

So strong.

He knew he needed that strength. Perhaps he had it, too.

"Uncle, I came to say that I forgive you. For everything."

The old man stared at him in shock for a few seconds, then regained his haughty demeanor. "Aww, lovely. I knew that was what I had _always_ wanted from you. Forgiveness. And now I'm going to go down on my knees and say that I'm so very sorry." The sarcasm dripping from his uncle's voice strangled him, and he knew he had to say something.

"You don't believe me."

"I don't care whether I believe you or not!" the prisoner shouted. "I don't care at all. But you, my nephew, you are a fool."

He only looked at his uncle. Looked and pretended he hadn't heard those words.

"I imagine you don't know why? I'll tell you. You think that you're mighty and heroic because you can humble yourself enough to tell me that you forgive me. You think that's all it takes. You don't know anything, then. Because you are too naïve and caught up in your desire to be _good_. But you're weak, and you're a coward, and if I weren't in this cage of a cell, you would never dare tell me you forgive me. Do you understand me?"

He closed his eyes, wishing the cruel words away. But then he opened his eyes again, and something he had never felt before surged inside of him. And he knew what to say.

"I forgive you, Uncle. I do. And I love you. You know I hate you, but I love you, too. And I _will_ visit you again. Good to see you, Uncle."

He ignored his uncle's shouting from as he walked out the doors of the jail, leaving an open-mouthed warden and a new promise behind. And some powerful thing called hope roared through him like a wave. Like a tidal wave indicating change.

And, for the first time, Alistair Oh was truly strong.

_You are never so strong as when you forgive. –Kimberley Converse_

**I'm not sure whether to classify this as a drabble or a oneshot, because it's at an awkward length somewhere between the two. I hope it was enjoyable (enough). Review if you feel the urge. Thanks!**


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